


Prologue - Of Mice and Molecules

by lichrider



Category: Dalton - Fandom
Genre: Gen, Original Universe, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Steampunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-31
Updated: 2013-03-31
Packaged: 2017-12-07 02:29:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/743129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lichrider/pseuds/lichrider
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An Introduction to the world of Dalton.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prologue - Of Mice and Molecules

There was a saying amongst the Gralzmal, “What are you, a man or mouse?”. Being of short stature and mouse-like features, it was more of a joke and a form of simple humor for the rodent race of Dalton. Being called a mouse was considered a compliment; you were clever, resourceful, and generally hard to kill. The Gralzmal admired these traits and so they grew accustomed to calling their kinsmen as such.

Herschel thought of this as he was sweeping the floor of his pub, the aptly named Mouse Trap. Primarily serving rodents, the middle-aged barkeep didn't mind the occasional human or two, as long as their coin was good. Herschel continued clearing the floor as best as he could, even if it seemed like he was simply pushing the dust towards the corner or under a rug.

Herschel took a wide look at his fine establishment and stretched his back, his gray hairs standing on their ends. “Phillip, prep me a pint, eh?” he sighed. There was no response. Herschel stomped over to the counter and peered over the edge. Phillip lay sprawled on the floor, his tail wrapped around his fat brown body. Phillip’s hand lay motionless on top of an empty bottle of stale whiskey. “Oy, you worthless rat, I said to prep me a pint!”, Herschel prodded Phillip hard in the ribs with his broom. Phillip let out an audible groan, he was drunk again; Herschel could smell the alcohol on the young Gral’s breath. “You are the worst bleedin’ example of a Gral there ever was, Phillip.” Herschel scolded, waving his thin finger in Phillip’s direction, “You make all us respectable mice look bad.” The young mouse wasn't listening, he was still trying to get up.

Herschel rolled his eyes, Phillip was a lost cause; nothing could make that boy look presentable. It wouldn't make much of a difference, anyway. To the other races, the difference between a Gral and any other rodent was miniscule at best. They were considered filthy, living in holes in the wall and perpetually caked in dirt. The bottom of the food chain, the Gralzmal were never treated as a sentient race, simply a pest. New homeowners normally put some money aside to deal with Gralzmal infestation. Which might seem ridiculous to some, as the exterminators themselves were Gral. The cleverer folk knew that it was all a scam anyway.

Phillip handed Herschel a half-filled mug of ale. Herschel sighed and shooed the young mouse away. Phillip lazily dumped himself into one of the stalls and brought a flask to his mouth. Like a babe drinking his milk, Herschel thought grumpily, then sipped at his cup. Herschel gagged, it was the most vile tasting ale in all of Dalton, but also the cheapest. How do my customers drink this crap?

At that moment, a chime rang from the entrance of the pub. Herschel stood up and tried his best to brush away the dust on his apron, to no avail. He made his way to the front to welcome his visitor, a curious looking white mouse with comically large goggles that hid her eyes. The Gral had several bags around her, stuffed with metal scraps and tools. She glanced around the pub taking note of all the exits and then nodded to herself. “This would do.” she said “Get me a table with four chairs.”

Herschel grinned. The customer was obviously a tinkerer. Inventors always had cash on hand, and this one is waiting for friends. “Right away, ma’am,” Herschel brought the girl over to one of the stalls (the furthest one from Phillip), and proceeded to wipe the table down clean.

“What will you be drinki-”  
“Water will be fine.” the young girl said.  
“We got some excellent ale, the finest in all of Dalto-”  
“I’ll have water, thank you.” the tinkerer snapped, “And some bread.”

Herschel twitched his whiskers and waited for her to be seated. He smiled at her then made his way to the kitchen. This tinkerer is very strange, he thought, she and those silly goggles. He peeked through a tiny window from the kitchen to the common area, and he watched her take several objects from her bag and fiddle with them. What in the world is she doing? Probably making some kind of doohickey or hubbub, he decided. Herschel wasn’t an expert on those things, not anymore at least. Herschel remembered when he was a young mouse. His grandfather was one of the researchers on Phlogiston theory, the project that led to the development of steam power.

He always dreamed of being a scientist, to become just like old grand-dad researching molecular theory and experimenting on Phlogistons. Back then, the Gral were the most advanced race in Dalton, but with the proliferation of steam power, humans eventually caught up; now the humans were in charge. No self respecting human would hire a Gral for research anymore, so Herschel decided to pursue a career dealing with his second love: alcohol.

Herschel came out of the kitchen with a tray and went over to the tinkerer’s table. “What- er... what are you making there, Miss?” Herschel asked. He placed a pitcher of water, a glass, and a plate with a stale-looking piece of bread on the table. “I’m trying to contact my friends.” the tinkerer said without looking up.

“How are you going to do that?” Herschel asked curiously. The girl pulled off her goggles and placed them on the table. She sighed audibly and looked at Herschel’s face. “Do you know what I am, Mr. Herschel Kingsley?” That was the first time Herschel saw her eyes. They were pink. Herschel gasped and took a step back. She was an albino Gral.

“It would be in your best interest and in the best interest of your lovely establishment, if you left me to my own devices.” The tinkerer said threateningly. Herschel didn’t need to be told twice; he did not want to cross this customer. Albino Gral were the most clever tinkerers, it is said that the World Spirit sprinkled dust of the Philosophers Stone into their eyes upon birth, making them pink and giving them exceptional skills in engineering and invention.

Having an albino Gral at the Mouse Trap was bad news. Because of their expertise, albino Gral were almost always on the run from those who covet such power, and assassins are only good for business when they are piss-drunk, not killing all the other patrons. Herschel briskly waddled to the last stall and poked at the passed-out Phillip, who decided that he was going to die right then and there drowning himself in whiskey.

“Phillip, I suggest you come with me right now.” Herschel whispered “There is an albino here, and I do not like the looks of her at all. So if you want to live, I suggest. you come. with me.” Herschel started tugging at Phillips legs, dragging him over to the kitchen. Herschel dare not look, but he could feel pink eyes drilling a hole into his skull. His whiskers twitched wildly.

After propping Phillip up against a barrel, Herschel took one last peek through the tiny window of the kitchen. The last thing he saw were the pink eyes, now directed out a nearby window. After that was the smell of chemicals, and then darkness.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first "real" attempt at writing, I never really took it seriously until now. So, I'd very much appreciate any kind of feedback. Negative, positive, please don't hesitate to comment. Thank you for taking the time to read this. :)


End file.
